Open Letter to Philipp Plein

Dear Mr. Plein,

Or may I call you Philipp? Maybe Phipsie, as we say here in Bavaria? Or much better: PP? For my name is Krisha Kops and considering my initials we could have something in common, we could be brothers in alliteration. After all that happened we need something to bond with.

Andy Warhol once said: “in the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes”. And you know, PP, I have been waiting for these 15 minutes quite some time now. 946080000 seconds or 15768000 minutes or 262800 hours or 10950 days or simply 30 years to be precise. But nothing. Nothing at all. When I became a model about 12 years ago, I had dreams. Dreams of orgies where I could neither count the length nor the number of legs involved. Billboard-dreams. Magazine-cover-dreams. Dreams in which I would peregrinate the fashion capitals of this world dressed in three piece Brioni suits.

Back then nobody could have guessed that one day I would end up working for you. Do not get me wrong, PP, I appreciate you giving me this job, the bread on my table. But this is not what I dreamed of. Where are my 15 minutes? I am shooting your online shop, day in and day out, year after year, caught up in the never changing routine of getting dressed, taking outfit pictures (front, back, and detail), getting undressed, getting dressed again, taking outfit pictures (front, back, and detail), getting undressed, getting dressed again … you get the picture (no pun intended). And what did you do? You decapitated me. Chopped my head off. Bereft me of my face. My identity.

Despite all I have done for you. I wore death for you. Dead crocodile, dead snake, dead cow, dead fox, dead snow leopard, dead cow, dead everything. I wore thousands and thousands of Plein cloths. Tell me, PP, did you wear every single piece of your collection? I did. Plein here, Plein there. So much Plein I became Plein. More Plein than you, PP. I even saw Plein in my dreams. Skulls with paste gems and rivets. More like nightmares. I could not even address my friend Philip any longer, without triggering something inside of me and suddenly starting to move robotically as if being on set. Until today flashes make me automatically pucker my face in a cold steel expression.

Why did you do that to me? You must have loved my perfectly chiselled michael-fassbender-jawline. But what about the rest? Is it really that despicable? See, PP, I would even cut my nasal hair for you. And I would plug my cyclopy-frida-kahlo-monobrow. I would even do a nose job and reduce the size of my nostrils.

Please, PP, do not let me be the faceless face of Philipp Plein. Give me my 15 minutes. Otherwise I will have no other choice, but to resign.

 

Sincerely,

Krisha Kops, the faceless face of Philipp Plein

 

 

 

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